Mystery
by toffy346
Summary: It happens right after Watsons' wedding. First time ever Sherlock doesn't investigate the crime, he makes one himself. Sad ministory about Sherlock and John, about things that will never be the same. Originally written by me in Russian, translated by myself into English.


_Whoever says that time cures, we'll never hear that phrase and never follow it._

- Sherlock? – a silent awkward question was heard out of the hall. – Mary, stay here, please. I am sure I'll manage it on my own.

- But John… - a blond woman grabbed her husband's arm and tried to stop him, but he pushed her hand away with one gentle move and walked into the living room.

The look of it wasn't sad. It was tragic, dramatic, but strangely calming down. There were hot flames in the fireplace, which were warming up people's limbs and souls. Heavy curtains were half-closed. An opened whisky bottle stood on the floor.

- Ah, this is you, John. Come in, come in, feel at home, yes…

Now this phrase sounded awkward, ridiculous and John needed some time to realize how long ago this place stopped being his home. Dark eyes, full of reproach and fog, now stared at the man. John looked in this eyes so many times and always saw only frost and mystery. Now this mystery was bitter, hardly concealed but intentionally emptied out. The great Sherlock sat in his cozy armchair, holding a glass full of icy drink in his pale hand. His face was lightened with a smile, but think pale lips were trembling slightly.

- Sherlock, why have you left the celebration?

- My dear friend, I can ask you the same question! Why have you left your own wedding? There still must be some delicious cake left! Cheers! – mumbled Sherlock and emptied his glass. Thin glass was still misted with the coldness of whisky. The detective breathed in and out and then stretched in the armchair, still squeezing his glass. – Would you like some, John? I share!

John rolled his eyes. He still remembered his stag-party and almost forgave Sherlock all that happened that funny day. Though he confessed then that all could be better, never in his life before has John Watson been happy that much. Happy feelings flowed through his skin and body, his heart was beating once in 5 seconds. If there was something John appreciated indeed, then it definitely was friendship. This kind of friendship, checked with gun, tears and a whisky bottle. Well, maybe also with a pack of headache medicine.

"Last time it was more cheerful", - thought John and, coughing lightly, he sat down next to Sherlock. The man stared at his glass, slightly moving his lips as if talking to himself. The little white flower – best man's sign – was lying on the floor, stepped on.

- You know, Mrs. Hudson told me that a wedding…

- …changed everything. I assume she was absolutely right, this , - Sherlock's voice sounded low with the taste of disappointment and disgust. John shook his head.

- Hudson, Sherlock, mrs. Hudson.

- Oh yes, she is! This is not important at all. I suppose you'd better go back to your wife. And as I'd like to stop your coming up questions, I'll explain it with your constant checking of watches and the strange folds on your coat's arm. I consider Mary wanted to see me but you let the woman stay where she has always been – out! Such a pity you've never been as smart as I am. Fortunately, it let you be a nice man and even more, - sighed the detective and lightly shook his glass, checking if any whisky was left. Sherlock's hand stretched out, grabbed the bottle from the floor and soon the glass became cold again, filled in with heady drink.

- A nice man and even more? – John raised his brows in surprise.

-Precisely! This is exactly what I wanted to say. You could have put it in your blog, but there's no need. I suppose, there's no need to keep this blog at all.

Despite being totally drunk, Sherlock managed to pronounce all the phrases with his usual composure. His voice wasn't trembling but the confused and fast breathe, though always controlled, was giving the detective away. John lowered his head thinking of a good phrase to say. Fingers, nervously tapping on his knee, stopped. A golden ring slightly slid off the ring-finger.

This is what John was afraid of. He was scared of hearing something that tortured his mind every night before wedding. It was something that didn't let him sleep. Something that made his heart beat faster and eyes become wet. Air was electrified and hundreds of questions and answers were frozen in it. John stood up and demanded a glass from Sherlock.

- Give it to me. You shouldn't't drink. And you also shouldn't say silly things. Marriage doesn't stop me from being with you… - John pauses, losing breathe of this strange and awkward phrase, but then he gathered himself up and went on, - …with you on all the cases. I am still your blogger.

Sherlock suddenly smiled, showing pearl white teeth. But this smile wasn't sincere, it only agreed with all the sadness in the dark eyes. Nevertheless, the man gave the glass to John and then stretched his legs. Sherlock's fingers were touching the chin.

- There are some evident reasons which make me realize you are no longer my blogger. First of all, you are married, John, and this is a terrible, disgusting obstacle for our work. Then, your wife is pregnant and this is a catastrophe for your career as a detective. And what is the worst… - Sherlock's glance fell over the empty armchair where John used to sit. Suddenly Sherlock went pale, his smile disappeared. His face froze letting no muscle to move. Sherlock's eyes turned into glass, trying to keep a little tear from falling down. John stared at his best friend. This pain that Sherlock felt melted in the room as cigarette's smoke. It dissolved with all the recollections. The silent sounds of Christmas violin carols were fading away, low laughter disappeared, the dust of the bombed windows 2 years ago fell over the fireplace.

John slowly sat next to Sherlock, putting a heavy hand on his shoulder. The shoulder was suspiciously shaking of silent crying.

- Sherlock, you shouldn't do it. This is only the first day. You've promised me and Mary to stay with us forever. In my turn I will promise you the same. Wherever you go, whatever happens to you, I promise to be around, - said John hotly, nodding his head, trying to assure himself, rather than Sherlock. But hardly pulling himself together, John felt a sudden touch of pale lips on his cheek. The icy lips, rarely smiling, abruptly burned John's soft cheek.

- Your wife awaits you, my best friend. You'd better hurry and go.

But now the leaving didn't seem easy. It was impossible, it was out of the reality. John's legs became heavy. His hand, still lying on Sherlock's shoulder, was heaving it down.

The choice seemed impossible. How can one choose between one good and another good? Of 2 evils choose the lesser?

The whisky glass lonely stood on the soft old carpet. Hot lips stopped on surprised ones. The golden ring delicately slid off the finger and fell next to the glass. The silence, which was first loud and screaming, now fell quiet.

- I'm afraid I stole you kiss, John, - whispered Sherlock in John's lips and fell asleep, sliding off to the floor. This pathetic, unbearable pathetic look made John let the tears fall.

- He's sleeping, darling. Tomorrow he will feel much better, - muttered John, coming out of the dark room. He put aspirin into his pocket, and somewhere deep in his soul – the mystery of cold eyes and unbearably hot Sherlock's lips.


End file.
